“Lies. All lies, brother.” But even with his head turned away toward the door, Faramir can hear the hint of well-meant humor in Boromir’s voice. Boromir enjoys his comforts, for he has them so little in the field, and a soft bed or a forgiving surface for his body is one tiny pleasure he will not forego when it is ready. The joy of sleeping in his own bed in Minas Tirith is one that Boromir savors—yet he seems intent on revising the landscape for greater comfort. Tonight, it is Faramir’s ribcage that Boromir wishes to gouge with a rough elbow.

“Could you at least—“

“No, I could not. Quiet, so I may sleep, or leave if you must, but I shift for no man in this bed.” This last comment brings Faramir full awake, for he knows this is not true. In the week since he returned from the north, Boromir has…shifted…many times. Gladly.

“Actions belie words, brother. If you wished me to leave, I would be sleeping where you are, closest to the door instead of pinned to the wall. And you would not—“

Faramir’s words are cut off as a muscular rump presses backwards against his groin. Eyes closing briefly at the contact, Faramir’s mind flashes back to earlier couplings, and his breath catches, knowing that their evening is not yet done. He lets the arm he has draped over Boromir’s side slip southward, toward his brother’s crotch. There, his hand confirms what he suspected all along: Boromir was not interested in sleeping. Well, not yet anyway.

As Faramir’s palm takes the thickened flesh, cups it, then pulls lightly, a shudder runs through the man in front of him. A hiss of breath accompanies the next tug that Faramir’s hand gives the firm shaft, then another. Muffled, Faramir hears the words, “What you do to me….”

“All that you will let me, in the space we are allowed,” Faramir replies quietly, while his hand goes on, steady now in its pacing, pulling upward then relenting, time after time.

A hand reaches back, beneath the rough blanket, and gently touches Faramir’s flank. Fingers toughened from swordplay are tenderness now, inscribing patterns of ownership and loving possession on the hip below. Faramir moves his head forward, so that his lips rest at the curve of Boromir’s neck, and whispers, “Speak, lover. Tell me all,” as his hand continues stretching his brother’s hardened shaft. As his thumb passes over the head, he senses faint moisture there, and a smile grows at the corner of Faramir’s mouth, knowing that soon his brother will be sated.

“Why speak” comes the hoarse answer, “When you already know my heart?” Boromir turns his head and through the room’s darkness, Faramir sees the open need there, his brother’s hunger. All of it, written on his face.

Faramir’s hand slows for a moment so that he can reposition his weight, up and over his brother’s shoulder. Faramir shifts so that his mouth can claim Boromir’s, an awkward movement that he cannot sustain for long. Yet their lips try to hold on, not letting the other leave too early. And Faramir’s heart clenches a little, when he thinks of the emptiness he will endure when they are separate once more.

As they part, lungs aflame from too little air, Faramir’s hand resumes its rhythm, and Boromir looks up into his eyes. “’Tis good … you know my heart already…. For I … could not … tell you all… if a fourth Age …were given me,” Boromir says softly, panting for breath as his body responds to Faramir’s actions.

Sliding down, until he sees only Boromir’s back once more, Faramir allows himself a private smile. His hand speeds now, palm moist and fingers too, faster, nay faster, to give his brother a moment. A moment of pleasure. A moment in which he may forget.

Fingertips squeeze the crest of Boromir’s erection, tightening near the ridge then easing off, flying, a blur beneath the blanket that covers them both. Faramir begins to neglect the root, leaving the base of his brother’s flesh for another time as he concentrates on the head, where he knows the sensations will be the most extreme. A subtle change, but Faramir recognizes it: the tightening before release. Into the dark, he whispers, “Now, brother. Spend yourself now.”

Boromir’s head presses back hard against the pillow, against his brother’s shoulder, as if it would flinch from the spasms that are coming. “Nnnngh,” he bites off, muffling every sound as his body convulses, hips jerking forward as he empties himself of desire.

But only for a moment.

In the darkness, Faramir removes his hand, letting the tender flesh drop carefully from his fingers. He presses a kiss into Boromir’s shoulder, then a second at the side of his neck, before he lets his head drop back to the pillow, and rest. “Goodnight, my captain.”

Comes the soft reply, “Nay. Goodnight, my love.”

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

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The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: Anastasiya
, LN Tora

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